


the only difference between martyrdom and suicide

by Anonymous



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Banditos - Freeform, dema, trench
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 20:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16688155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tyler's heart is beating fast at this point, faster than the last time. It is comparable to a bird beating against its cage walls, wings flapping and restless and eager to escape the confines of its prison cell. He packs his red beanie and circular sunglasses, the vines growing in his stomach. Flashes of color torment his brain for an instant, and he’s squeezing his eyes shut again just as he squeezed the flower’s stem. The nostalgia seeps in like dye, spreading, spreading, spreading, spreading. He almost doesn’t want to do it. He could back out now. He could stay and pretend like everything was fine.No, he knows that he has to do this.





	the only difference between martyrdom and suicide

It always starts with yellow.

Tyler’s gripping the flower again, the only hint of color that remains in his world of dull blues and faded greens. The window, too, reveals the outdoors smothered in a subduedness. The walls are concrete and grey. The air is thick and musty.

He squeezes the stem now, his nails reaching around and digging into his own skin. He squeezes harder. If he squinted, it would almost look like the flower was blooming from his fist.

In one motion, Tyler inhales sharply and carries the flower closer to his nose. This wouldn’t kill him yet, would it? His eyes are closed. If he imagines it hard enough, he can muster the smell of a faint crispness. It only lasts a second, though, before it gets dim and cold and heavy and then he’s coughing—

—it’s the air, maybe. He coughs his way to the box in his room. (It’s locked, don’t worry. The bishops can’t see it). Returning the flower to its home among the others is an autopilot gesture, but this time, he doesn’t have to do that. He freezes over the box, eyes locking with its brown shell. It’s a staring contest. He wins and pockets the flower in defiance.

Tyler needs to keep the flowers safe, though, even though the feeling in his stomach is mocking him. Safe? Safe? Safe? Safe?

What he’s about to do is not safe, but he can’t think about it too much. The bishops could find him and stop him before he does it and question him and question Josh and question question question question—

—answer.

He now heads to his bed and gathers what he needs. The backpack is green and frayed and ridden with dirt, but it’s all he has and it’s all he can take with him. This and the briefcase. 

His heart is beating fast at this point, faster than the last time. It is comparable to a bird beating against its cage walls, wings flapping and restless and eager to escape the confines of its prison cell. He packs his red beanie and circular sunglasses, the vines growing in his stomach. Flashes of color torment his brain for an instant, and he’s squeezing his eyes shut again just as he squeezed the flower’s stem. The nostalgia seeps in like dye, spreading, spreading, spreading, spreading. He almost doesn’t want to do it. He could back out now. He could stay and pretend like everything was fine.  

No, he knows that he has to do this.

His backpack is now stuffed with his personal belongings, but he’s not really sure why he’s bringing them as well. It probably has something to do with not wanting them to rot in the confines of his empty room forever. They would serve has his skeleton, possibly—the remains of what he was: a filthy red beanie and smudged white glasses.

He’s gonna throw up—

—but he’s been preparing for a while. He’s going to be fine.  _ You’re going to be fine, _ he breathes.

Under his bed is the next stop. It’s a briefcase. Dusty. He needs it all. Does he have everything?

He pulls out two maps.  _ Glorious vista _ . It’s fragile in his hands, and he holds it like he’s holding a child. An edge is torn, and it’s grainy.  _ They’ll still be able to read it. _

He knows this place by heart now; he’s spent the past thirty years exploring it, but he still wouldn’t use the word home. He knows the cylindrical grey towers ominously watching. He knows where the vultures perch. He knows Nico. He knows where he’ll end up. But he thinks of the flowers and the torches and the banditos when he thinks of home, not this foreign city.

The next things he picks up make his heart skip a beat. Two failed perimeter escapes. He remembers the running. His feet moving faster than he could process, a blur beneath his racing mind. The landscape passed—dull, green, thick, thorny. His hands grazed against the tall brush; crimson poured. The distant smell of fire, burning desire, firm hands around his neck, black.

He’s back to the next part of the briefcase—the two photos. Two copies of each, of course. He knows the first by heart. Their black eyes like daggers piercing through his chest. The walls. Those walls. He can’t stare too long or he can feel their beaks eating at him already. They’re peckish; they’re pecking. His corpse is rotting, decaying, unidentifiable. He’s simply a meal. He’s flavor to them. He’s meat. He will be meat.

This picture will reveal his fate.

The second is hazier. He is not sure where the banditos found it; he’s not sure how old it is. The child looks innocent, but the story isn’t.

This picture will reveal their history.  

Now, he puts the pictures and map and FPE in the briefcase again. He counts how many things he has. Four.

He closes it but then opens it up. Counts. Four. He closes it and opens it up. Counts. Four. He closes it and opens it up. Counts. Four. He closes it and opens it up. Counts. Four.

He checks his bag again. Beanie. Sunglasses. He adds the extra copies. He silently thanks Keons. He zippers the back and opens it up. Counts. Four. He zippers the back and opens it up. Counts. Four. He zippers the back and opens it up. Counts. Four. 

He’s ready.

He digs into his pocket, taking wobbly steps towards the window. He knows where the floor creaks and screams at him. He’s gripping the flower once again, but this time, he’s twisting it between his thumbs and humming. The window. He has stood here so many times, watching the vultures fly in Vs and watching the buildings decay.

Finally, the lights have fallen, replaced by a heavy grey. He knows where the shadows fall and what buildings are shrouded by the presence of the dark. There have been other last times. He’s said goodbye too many times to count. But this is his final escape.

He turns his head away sharply and grabs his backpack and briefcase and doesn’t look back. 

The hallway air is drafty. Bitter. There is a breeze that bites at his face like a vulture’s beak. He pauses, takes a breath, and continues. 

He knows he has to follow the steps. Josh had whispered them to him before he left Trench like a tentative secret dancing on his tongue. The torches, the only source of heat and light, were burning around them against the contrast of the dark. The light reflected on their pupils like individual fires were burning inside of their eyes. 

Tyler could feel the hesitancy in Josh’s breath and demeanor as he leaned over and repeated what he was to do. He had never been to that part of the city before, and he had just started to get comfortable with the discomfort of the cold, sleeping on the floor—miles from those peculiar circular cylinders. 

_ Trench _ . 

But maybe he is meant to face the inevitable before it catches him by the throat again. And maybe he wants to. 

Tyler starts to walk down the hallway, this time purposefully into the cold. Each step feels like his foot is a brick; his movements are slow and heavy. He is sure that he’s never going to rid the sick, nauseating feeling in his stomach. He is never going to make it, he is never going to make it, he is never going it make it.

But he needs to do it. This is for his successors. This is for everyone else.  _ Trench _ . At least, that’s what he’s telling himself. 

He wishes he could be there right now. He misses that fire. He misses that warmth. He misses the gnawing hunger and yellow tape smothering him and trees’ needles scattered among the dirt. 

Tyler gazes up to the sky, pausing. It’s dark, and he can hardly make out the stars with the strong haze clouding the air. It’s much easier to see the stars in trench. 

But Tyler keeps moving, and he’s being cautious. Eyes dashing, head spinning, steps tentative. There could easily be a bishop lurking around the corner, and he cannot be captured before he makes it.

He picks up his space once he realizes that he doesn’t have all night, and the longer he waits the more the sickness builds. He’s not sure his head is even screwed on. Everything is loose. Tight. Moving. Frozen. Dashing. Still—

he’s running. He has to make it to the center of the city. He had to pass down the information. He has to spread the word. The concrete is passing by him in one grey rush, and everything is mostly dark except for the unusual burst of artificial light from a lamp or a sign. There’s neon in the distance, too, and it provides a quiet layer of illumination. It’s not a sign of comfort, but it’s not a sign of distress either. It’s just there: lifeless. 

_ We’ll win, but not everyone will get out.  _

He picks up his space which he didn’t think was possible, but he can’t keep up with the pure adrenaline coursing through his body. His hands are shaking, his feet are tapping, his eyes are darting. The landscape is passing faster, faster, faster—

—he’s soon standing in front of those grand cylinders with a certain awe. It’s almost as he believed they only existed from afar. He’s been here before, yes, but this time it’s different. 

He’s looking for the entrance now. It’s on the shortest cylinder. He knows the code.

He brings his hand to enter it and he knows he’s shaking  _ 14 _ . They’re probably  _ 2 _ watching him  _ 4 _ . They’re probably ready  _ 6 _ to attack and capture him  _ 8  _ and torture  _ 9  _ him and find all the banditos  _ 3  _ including Josh _ 5 _ and he won’t be  _ 1 _ —

—the plan commences. The arches are beautiful, bland, blue. It’s empty. He’s surprised there not some sort of alarm for his intrusion. It’s quiet and peaceful instead. 

He wants to give up now, but then he realizes that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

The backpack comes off first. He throws it to the right (it hits the ground loudly, and it echoes echoes echoes echoes echoes). He runs to the left. That’s the distraction. They’ll think it’s in there. But now, his beanie is gone. His sunglasses are gone. He is gone… 

He’s as fast as before. He memorized the path he needs to take. 

Somewhere along the path, he reaches into his pocket and Tyler’s gripping the flower again, the only hint of color that remains in his world of dull blues and faded greens. He tries to focus his eyesight on the flower while the mesh of walls flash by. It’s dizzying; his head can’t see straight.

Keons appears in double vision, but it fixes itself in a few seconds. He’s been waiting. 

_ Are you sure you want to do this?  _ Keon’s voice is low.  _ You know what it means.  _

Tyler can only nod. He knows Keons will help him. He will be the reason these missions will continue. This will save so many more people.

Keons takes the briefcase.  _ We’ll be waiting.  _

Tyler turns around. His hands are empty. He’s walking now, feet heavier before. He’s dragging them through mud. He’s walking through the hillside again, carrying a torch. Josh is with him, right? Yellow tape sticks to his jacket. No, no, no. He’s not there. He’s here. He can’t think. He can’t think. he cant think hecantthink

And they are waiting for him, Keons in the back with a stoic face. Listo has taken the sunglasses. Nico is in the front with the four items and red beanie. 

_ We’ve wanted these for so long.  _ Nico booms.  _ You trapped yourself. I can’t believe it was this easy.  _

Tyler bites his lip. This was the plan. He balances on one foot and sways to the side. His vision is getting blurry. He must do this fast or he’ll stay here forever, tortured and captured and forever in a hell.

He pulls out his yellow angel’s trumpet. He eats it. It always ends with yellow.

Two days later, Clancy finds a briefcase underneath his bed. He opens it. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this piece. I understand the vagueness of it, which was purposeful; if you have any questions, feel free to comment them and I will try my best to answer.


End file.
